


weapons don't weep

by cardinalrisk



Category: EXO (Band), Z.Tao (Musician)
Genre: Blood, Dirty Talk, M/M, MAMA Era Powers (EXO), Major character death - Freeform, Rough Sex, Selfcest, Slut Shaming, questionable morals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29836515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrisk/pseuds/cardinalrisk
Summary: Because Zitao had lived similar realities enough times to know how this ended, too many lifetimes, too many broken timelines. This was the first step to the beginning of the end. To the end of their suffering, if he played it right.So that hand is shrugged off, spine pulled straight. No more distractions.
Relationships: Huang Zi Tao | Z.Tao/Huang Zi Tao | Z.Tao, Huang Zi Tao | Z.Tao/Oh Sehun
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	weapons don't weep

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: mentions of blood, explicit sexual content, rough sex, no really, the sex features violence but it is 100% consensual, zitao and zitaø both have a huge slut shaming kink, dirty talk, major character death.

The mission is meant to be simple.

Yifan details the coordinates as Zitao adjusts a black holster across the thick of his thigh, tucking the ebony handled kunai home. There is a familiar sense of foreboding, like the taste of ozone before a storm levels a city, the prickle of skin under the gaze of a beast lying in wait. 

Yifan’s hand settles over Zitao’s shoulder and his finger twitches with the innate urge to smooth out the skin that creases between heavy brows. But this Yifan is not his, so he settles with a smile and curls his fist tight.

“I’ll bring him home ge, I promise.” 

And Yifan still looks ready to argue — Jongdae could go with him, Luhan too. Someone, _please_.

“This is my fight. He can’t hurt me, not the way he could hurt the rest of you.”

Because Zitao had lived similar realities enough times to know how this ended, too many lifetimes, too many broken timelines. This was the first step to the beginning of the end. To the end of their suffering, if he played it right.

So that hand is shrugged off, spine pulled straight. No more distractions.

Zitao ignores Yifan’s sigh, but not the little smile he finally offers. There are the remnants of another life in that smile, but the time keeper knows not to linger on the innate want to act. Several milleniums with blood on his hands was enough for him to know.

“Stay safe Taozi, we need you to come home.”

They all know it’s not that simple, but Zitao murmurs a mostly sincere promise regardless.

Their new home was buried within the forest belt of the Akaishi Mountains of Japan, far from the trickle of tourists, the rush of modern civilization. Made up of pretty wood and painted shoji screens, it was a gentle paradise hidden from those that wished to destroy them. 

Temporary, as all things were, but a home for the time it was allowed.

A koi pond flows through the gardens, carved from the earth by Kyungsoo’s gentle hand, teeming with life. And shrouding it in its gentle rain of flowers was a pink cherry blossom, planted at Zitao’s behest, nurtured by the way Yixing’s presence bled life into all around him.

The last shards of a golden sun reflect against the water, warms the spots of skin it touches and before Zitao the falling flowers catch in the air, take the form of a blooming bird with its wings stretched wide. It flies close, arcs to one side with a sharp gust of wind that sends the dark of his hair into disarray, and when Zitao turns to watch its descent, it gently disappitates into a flurry of pink.

“You’re leaving?”

Sehun is beneath the tree, hand lowering as the wind settles, and he wears a smile that borders on sad. Zitao wants to kiss that sadness away, and so he goes to him, because this Sehun was his. His to kiss, to love.

He falls into arms already open for him, slides fingers beneath the shirts hem so they can skim over the lean muscle of a lower back, up to where shoulder blades pressed tight to scarred skin. His head tips, a sloped nose pressing into that warm crook between neck and shoulder, a familiar spot he often marked with teeth and tongue.

A warm hand curls around the nape of his neck, an arm sliding around a small waist and Zitao shudders. Sehun is an anchor in this world, there to catch him when Zitao inevitably falls. But this timeline was broken, shuddering at its foundations, slipping at the seams. Loving Sehun was dangerous, threatening to tear all of his work apart.

“It’s time,” his voice barely carries and there are lips brushing over the high of his cheek, knowing too much, too little. “He’s here, it’s… it’s time.”

The arm at his waist squeezes, as if Zitao wouldn’t have to leave if he held tight enough. And maybe one day Zitao would give up his duty to the universe, allow himself to love with no end, no countdown. 

But not this time, not this life — he was too close.

They stay tangled beneath the blossoms until the sun’s grip has long released them, the curve of Sehun’s thumb pressed gentle into the ever aching muscle of Zitao’s neck. He shouldn’t steal time, not here, not now. But when Sehun’s fingers find his own, tug, tug, tug until they stumble into a room too familiar, too damning, he decides it’s okay.

They shouldn’t, but Zitao can’t deny the desperate plea Sehun’s gaze holds when he backs him against a wall. He doesn’t complain as his holsters are loosened, forgotten somewhere for him to regret later. And he shouldn’t encourage the way Sehun tugs a thigh around his waist, fills the breath of distance between them with the weight of his desire. 

Instead he moans when Sehun slides home, tastes the sweet honey of Sehun’s love against his lips, and they had always been give and take, gentle, gentle. But there was nothing else left here, and so he gives all that he can, hides a little slice of it for himself deep, where the rot of what was to come couldn’t reach.

Sehun falls asleep beside him, the tangle of their limbs encased in the white light of the moon’s gaze. Zitao waits for too long, untangles himself from the heat, finds each part of himself he had abandoned between the door and their bed.

It’s meant to be easy, no looking back. But Sehun was always a light sleeper, was settling himself over the length of Zitao’s back long before he could run from him. The time keeper’s shoulders slump, his resolve hovering on a precipice.

A kiss just beneath his ear, where the warm breath tickles the skin and makes him shiver. “Come home to me?”

_Yes_ , is what he wants to say. Instead he turns, buries hands in the same hair he had tangled and tugs Sehun into a kiss that spells the end. Saying goodbye never got easier, no matter how many times he practiced it.

“I love you Shixun.”

Sehun never answers, but Zitao knows. He knows.

Jongin is waiting for him when he finally wanders back to the garden, his smile not so sad and Zitao is grateful. He had no more reassurances to give.

“Ready to go?”

Zitao casts a gaze to the cherry blossom, a dark shadow against the full faced moon. The branches would be bare soon, the fairy dusting upon their garden gone. He wonders if they’d be there to see it bloom once more.

“Ready.”

Jongin’s hand is warm, grounding. Enough.

Carved into the stone of Mount Dykhtau is a temple. It had once housed the twelve, had been a home to worship the Guardian, to learn of who she was, of what they were here to protect. That had been before the first attack, before an avalanche had collapsed most of the stone and had taken several of them with it.

They had barely survived that one — it had been an anomaly, a reality Zitao had not yet lived. He remembered the stone pressing against him, the blood in his mouth, the screams as Yixing had pieced his shattered spine back together.

It was no surprise he had come here, where Zitao’s pain still echoed against the stone.

Jongin had looked upon the grand entrance of their home long lost, had traced one of the many symbols carved into the stone columns. Snow fell gentle around them, soaked through wind swept tresses, through the thin of his shirt. Half a metre away a snowy abyss calls to them, the temple cutting off at a mountain edge that takes no prisoners.

Zitao had brought nothing but his weapons — this was a one way trip. He could tell by the set of Jongin’s shoulders that he knew it, too.

“You don’t speak about him.”

It’s not an accusation, but Zitao can’t help the way his hackles rise either. “Why would I?”

“You know about the bleed Zitao, our powers exist in similar spaces. I know you jump between timelines, sometimes they… seep through, into that space we share. I learnt to traverse the currents, but I’ve seen you die.” There’s that sadness, marked with an ugly smear of desperate. Jongin knew this was another failed timeline, what Zitao was here for. “Maybe if you spoke to us, we could change something. This burden is meant to rest on all of us, stop trying to be a saint.”

The anger is new, but Zitao doesn’t have the time to argue. He’s here, he’s here. “You need to leave.”

“I can help, maybe with the two of us—”

The embrace catches Jongin off guard and he’s stiff in Zitao’s arms, the fight too thick, too heavy. “It had to end like this. I’m sorry.”

When Zitao pushes him from the edge, time tugs itself to a slow. It’s not Zitao’s doing, it’s his. He can see the way Jongin’s features twist, fear first, then the rotting core of betrayal. Zitao watches him twist, the way wind snaps its hungry fingers in an effort to consume another lost soul. But black smoke appears first, cuts a little hole in reality that Jongin slips through easy. 

Time snaps back into place so suddenly it makes Zitao’s chest ache.

It’s time.

The entrance hall is cold. Statues line it, some shattered, others still holding strong. A wayward layer of snow coats the floor and it takes several steps for the heat to flow back into his skin. The heart of the temple had been awakened, he could feel the thrum of it beneath his feet, in that little part of him that ached to feed off the Guardian’s essence. 

Zitao doesn’t linger; he knows where he is.

The training room was perhaps the most familiar to Zitao. Forgotten weapons still line the walls, others abandoned along the floor, caught somewhere in a memory. The far side of the room looked upon the snow caps of Dykhtau, held up my columns that tell the story of the Guardian’s legend through intricate carvings. The scene is reflected in the mirror that runs along the opposite wall , the same mirror Zitao had once spent hours upon hours refining his form in.

And in the centre of it all, he stands, looking upon the frigid landscape.

“Zitao.” The voice comes from behind him, familiar and he shouldn’t turn his back but he does, just so he can look upon the other with his own eyes. 

Junmyeon looks frail, weak, and Zitao knew that his power had been leached from him. It kept them docile, quiet. It wasn’t quite torture, but it was close enough. 

“You’re safe.” It’s a sigh of relief, too raw. But that’s why they had taken Junmyeon, they knew they would fall apart without him.

And behind him, a foot scrapes along stone. There’s no hands on him but he shudders like a nail was dragged over his spine regardless.

“Did you think I’d hurt him Taozi?” There’s laughter in the low voice, far too familiar. “You think so low of me?”

“He has every reason to.” No. _No, please._ “I’ve seen what you are.”

Jongin was meant to leave — Zitao had made sure of it. But he steps from the shadows of the adjoining hall, barely spares Zitao a glance. Something terrible is spreading through his chest, it takes him a long moment to recognise it as fear, bitter and consuming. 

“You brought friends, I’m disappointed in you Zitao.”

He’s close, too close. And Zitao is tugging a blade free, spinning on his heel and going for a throat before he can change his mind. His arm is caught midair but he’s bringing his foot around, the heel of his boot biting into the back of a knee. The leg buckles and Zitao pushes into the grip that holds him, sends them both to the stone with a graceless tangle of limbs.

It had been too easy and the man beneath him has his head tossed back, a terrible smile spread across his mouth. Zitao presses the blade to his throat simply because he can, presses deep enough to feel the shudder of breath beneath his grip.

“I told Yifan I’d bring him home,” his gaze flitters to Jongin for only a moment, everything kept unsaid buried in the line of his brow. “Keep that promise for me.”

He can hear Junmyeon disagreeing — no one gets left behind. But Jongin’s lips are pursed, fingers curling around the thin of Junmyeon’s wrist. “I’m coming back for you.”

Zitao doesn’t get to see reality split open for them, but the silence rings loud enough for him to know.

And then it’s just the two of them and Zitao should know by now, just how easily the weight of his presence overwhelms. It’s heavy, unnatural, and yet.

“I missed you Taozi.” 

Beneath him Zitao, — the _other_ Zitaø, the one born from his own blood and a test tube — he watches him. That gaze had always been heavy, had always looked at him like he knew every part of Zitao through and through. He had wondered sometimes if others felt the same when he looked at them, if Sehun felt as naked beneath it as Zitao did.

He looked as he always had; that was one thing that never changed. Too many times had Zitao buried his fingers within silver tresses, held his honey warm gaze, lingered on the one eye that bled a broken cerulean and amber.

And he wears his jewelry, as he always does. Golden chains and silver diamantes rest haphazardly across the hollow of a cheek, gold glitter smeared at the edge of his pretty eyes. Zitao’s blade still sits against skin, within the gap of a gilded collar laced with diamonds. Such extravagance would look tacky on most, but the man beneath him wore it with ease.

“I should kill you.” It’s a sweet little murmur, heavy with underlying promise and Zitao’s gaze follows the slow simper that warms Zitaø’s lips.

A gentle movement has Zitao’s blade pressing tighter to skin, a threat that tugs a little moan from the lips he can’t stop staring at. “So do it Taozi. _Do it._ ”

He would, could, should. But that’s not how this went. 

When their lips meet; it is not kind. The sharp edge of his blade nicks skin before it’s sent clattering out of reach, a cardinal tear left to stain gold. Zitao’s teeth ache where they clash, the sharp edge of an incisor splitting flesh, but the way Zitaø shudders a moan against the seam of his lips is nothing short of wanton.

Zitao traces the curve of a familiar cupid bow, curls a firm hand around a throat to press Zitaø down, put an end to the impatient way he tries to take more and more. Zitao should end it here, press that hand firm and listen to the pretty gasps warm against his mouth.

He shouldn’t swallow the taste of Zitaø down, iron and salt on his tongue. Instead his fingers are sliding between the gap of a chiffon shirt, to where skin is fever hot, scar tissue thick over the _thump, thump, thump_ of an artificial heart. Zitaø gives a gentle little moan, and when his fingers curl around the little chain of wings pierced through Zitaø’s nipples, the skin ripples with a shiver.

He wonders, idly, which of the others Zitaø had given himself to this time. It’s not right, the ugly coil of jealousy that slithers through the pit of his gut, but it rears its ugly head anyway, makes him tug at the chain until it hurts.

“Who was it?” He’s tearing at that chiffon now, sliding low to scrape the sharp edge of an incisor to the rise of Zitaø’s collarbone. His teeth slide into the skin clean, drag a hurt little noise from the sanguine purse of Zitaø’s lips. “Which of them did you whore yourself out to?”

The low sound of Zitaø’s laugh grinds against sensitive nerves, is all too knowing. “Wanna know what they did to me Taozi? If they fucked me better?”

“Doesn’t take much to fuck a whore like you brainless.” He’s rewarded with a sharp inhale, strong thighs curling around his waist. Zitao is expecting the way they squeeze, the way Zitaø’s muscles ripple in an attempt to throw his weight off. His fingers turn hooked, rip skin and slide back to a warm throat, press him back flat. “You don’t want to play this game.”

“Neither of us would be here if that were true.” Zitaø’s voice is a low rasp, the way his hips twist dragging the heat of his cock along Zitao’s abdomen. And he’s right, he always was, but Zitao wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an admittance.

“Shut up.” 

Zitao settles his weight back on his knees, uses a heavy grip to lift Zitaø’s body off the stone and twist. The time destroyer’s body goes easy, knees attempting to slide up beneath him. But Zitao is still in charge here, grips at silver strands and slams him face first to the stone, scratching gentle nails over his scalp half a moment later.  
The hurt noise Zitaø produces is half a moan, half a complaint, but his hips ride back against Zitao’s weight still pressed over him, his desire never stuttering. 

“Tell me who it was.”

Zitao tugs the shirt from where it’s tucked into skin tight latex, exposes the low arch of Zitaø’s spine for his wandering hands. He skims his fingers over each crevice, long burnt to memory, stops just before the sharp cut of a shoulder blade to drag his nails down, pretty red welts forming in their wake.

The whine is loud, pressed wet to stone, and Zitao does it again just to watch him shake.

“All of them.” His laughter is laced with something terrible, and Zitao can imagine the flash of his teeth, the challenge in his gaze. “Let Chenchen fuck me first, ‘nd they all watched. It was Lu-ge’s idea to share.”

The revelation doesn’t surprise him; he had met Chen enough times, had fallen to him before too. Zitaø’s constant desire to hurt had been perfected beneath his careful hands. Chen had always demanded more, pushed the limits of everything you were. He wondered, briefly, how Zitaø would taste pressed between the both of them.

But not here — not now.

“Did you dress up all pretty for him too?” 

He can see the gold chains wound around the slight bulge of Zitaø’s biceps, knew they would bury little red marks into the flesh if Zitao were to tug his hands back, keep them pressed to the small of his back. 

“Always prettiest for you Taozi, you know that.”

And he does. Zitaø always came back to him in the end, it was destined.

The warm of his fingers are sliding between the stone and Zitaø’s body, finding the cold silver of buttons and releasing them, easing the way when he drags latex over pretty hips. It’s just enough for him to fit himself between the gap of Zitaø’s thighs, to grip at the slight swell of Zitaø’s ass.

A finger dips in the cleft, the other hand spreading him wide and Zitaø offers a moan of heavy expectation. 

Zitao’s eyes follow, eats up every inch of exposed skin as if he hadn’t done it a thousand times over. But there is the hint of wetness at the pretty pink rim, smeared along the crack, and it’s his turn to laugh, to feel Zitaø tense beneath him.

“Did someone fuck you before you came? Was it Suho? Did you let him fuck you, too?” The tip of Zitao’s finger is taken easily, a sweet little sigh coming from the lithe body arching up beneath him. “No, I don’t think you could handle Suho. He’d break you too easily.”

Whatever protest ready on Zitaø’s tongue is jumbled with the way he slides two fingers deep, shifting forward to press an unkind palm between tensed shoulder blades, keeping Zitaø’s spine arched, body strung tight to hold the pose. It is exhilarating, holding such unbridled devastation beneath his hand, demanding utter obedience from a being meant to bring chaos to the world.

A crook of fingers draws forward a jolt of sensation, the shake of Zitaø’s inhale too loud to deny and Zitao has no reason to hide the satisfied quirk of lips that follows. “No, you knew I’d come. Wanted to be ready for me, didn’t you xiǎo māo? Did you fuck yourself open thinking about me? About the last time I ruined you?”

The world hadn’t been on the precipice of ruin that time, it had already fallen, had been razed to ash and dust. Zitao had risked everything to spill the time destroyer’s blood, to feel the slick of it beneath his fingers as fire consumed the last of the world around them. The memory of it makes his breath catch, encourages him to press a third finger to a pink rim, watch it stretch a body so desperate for it.

“Gonna keep drawing this out Taozi? You heard Jongin, he’s coming back for you.” A breathless lilt further softens the edges of Zitaø’s voice, draws his gaze from where Zitaø is stretched open, to the shadowed edges of features half turned towards him. “Or do you want them to see? Do you want them to know?”

It’s a dig, one Zitao had fallen to before. Zitaø was too much to be a secret, demanded attention with mere presence. He had stood before Zitao’s brothers in arms on familiar battlefields, trampled by history none but the time keepers could recall, had cut down all that mattered in search of another clandestine meeting between broken worlds. 

The others had seen before, had done similar terrible things. But it never stopped the bitter taste of guilt clinging to the back of a throat, the underlying nag of someone looking to the desperation in Zitao’s gaze and knowing all that he had done. And Zitaø knows he’s already clawed beneath the skin, hooked himself into tender sinew, one breath away from tearing it all apart.

And he knows that Zitao is a lie, to himself, to the man beneath him. He had pulled Zitaø apart before, but it had always been in an effort to prove that he could, that he wasn’t always several steps behind Zitaø and his careful calculation.

Zitaø was beneath him because Zitaø demanded it of him, he wanted to see if the time keeper had flirted with the edge of darkness Zitaø always walked, the same darkness that would swallow the world he was meant to be saving.

The truth was obvious enough; that flare of meanness within Zitao had begun to stutter, Zitaø’s goading making him hesitate. And it is enough for Zitaø to strike, sink his teeth into a throat and put his claim where it had always belonged.

The way he withdraws his hands is an effort to catch up, work at the restraints of his pants and prove he can finish this. But he hesitates for too long and Zitaø is on him half a moment later, a touch of brute strength that has him on his back, teeth in tongue and aching.

“No, you just wanted to pretend that you could win this one.” Zitaø has no intentions to take his time, moulds Zitao effortlessly within his grasp. He isn’t as messy as Zitao, untangles each holster, strips him of each layer until he’s bared before him, golden and beautiful.

With the same overwhelming gaze crawling across a map of tan skin, encouraging the tremble that flutters over muscle, Zitao has nothing left to deny. “Give it to me,” a demand, an edge breathless, thighs spreading pretty to frame the way Zitaø falls between them. 

“Say please.” There’s little force in the words, the amusement sitting over Zitaø’s pretty features edging on cocky once more. Zitao knows it’s a bluff, can see the way Zitaø’s hips ride forward into the circle of his own spit slick fingers, impatience sitting heavy. 

“Fuck you.” A sharp, biting remark, but enough for Zitaø to snarl. There is an ease in the way Zitaø grips his hips, raises him off the ground just enough to slide forward, cock nudging up against his tender hole. There’s a touch of slick still there, worked in with Sehun’s careful fingers early in the night.

But it’s not quite enough to make the slide seamless, the relentless forward push of Zitaø’s hips offering just enough friction to make him hiss. When Zitao’s hands scramble for purchase at the destroyer's shoulders, he isn’t stopped, nails hooking into the wounded skin once more.

There’s something overwhelming about the way Zitaø fits inside him, different from the thickness of Chen or Jongdae, the struggle of taking Yifan to the hilt. From the very first moment he’s gone, a mess of unfinished words as Zitaø seeks out an end in the warmth of his body.

Perhaps it’s the way he knows that the world is crumbling around them, losing time every second they linger here together, their joint existence threatening to destroy every known and unknown timeline. Zitao isn’t sure it’s so complicated.

Not when he can’t look away from Zitaø, the half curl of his lip as he works his hips, gaze set on the spot where he spears Zitao open. There’s a meanness buried in the set of his jaw, the same he wears when he hurts another, forces a hand in another’s chest and forces their body through a false eternity until nothing remains but dust.

Zitaø catches him looking easy enough, curls pretty fingers around the leaking heat of Zitao’s cock with a grip that borders on painful, forces the noises Zitao had kept buried from his aching throat.

“Think I might give you to Chenchen next time Taozi,” his words are clipped, breaths uneven and shuddering. “Been running from him for too long, he misses you, knows you miss him too.”

Zitao can’t deny the truth, not here, not like this. He can only imagine what it would be like to be served up to Chen, bled free of the mass of his power, pretty but utterly useless to his brothers. Would Chen still want him? Zitao could never guess, could never truly understand Chen — _or Jongdae_ — on a good day.

But with Zitaø fucking him stupid, his thoughts fizzle out to little more than sensation, head tipping back to bare his throat as it all comes to a head. 

When he comes, it’s with a whimper. 

Zitaø is buried deep, cock pressed against his prostate with every short thrust, working him through the high of his orgasm as he searches for his own. It doesn’t take long, not with Zitao’s body a suffocating heat around him, teeth dug into the soft of Zitao’s throat to lay claim once more. Zitao’s sob is tender sweet, body falling lax against the hard ground, Zitaø’s grip the only thing that keeps him in position.

Distantly, Zitao can hear Zitaø pressing gentle praises to the inside of his throat, lapping at the blood he had drawn. But the words are white noise as the world falls back into focus, time falling out of disarray.

This was where an understanding was always present, the acceptance that one of them had won settling once more. Zitaø would allow him to get up, to redress himself and hide the truth of what had happened, even if the bloody teeth marks gave it all away. This timeline had yet to fracture; Zitao would be forced to see it happen by Zitaø’s side.

Except Jongin had promised to return, and he knew what the delay was; he was not coming alone.

Zitao wouldn’t lose them again, not when they still had time to live.

If Zitaø knows of his hesitance, he doesn’t show it, taking his place once more by the carved pillars, light hair shifting in the wind that teases at them. The first blade Zitao had lost stills sits abandoned on the training room floor, a faux white flag.

When he steps close, Zitaø turns to meet him, fingers dancing along the slope of his jaw. It is perhaps the most gentle touch offered to one another in this timeline, lingering for several moments, enough for Zitao to lean into it. It’s why he doesn’t see the knife coming, not until it’s digging up and in between his ribs, a choked noise spilling red from his lips.

“You forget Taozi, we’re one and the same. You can’t hide from me.”

There’s the ghost of sadness upon Zitaø’s features, hesitation coming too late. It takes but a moment for Zitaø to shake it off. 

There is pain overwhelming Zitao’s senses, blood crawling up his throat and the dark of his eyes glitters with tears.

“Everyone but you.”

Zitao stumbles, anticipates the way Zitaø leans to catch him, the imbalance in his step. Zitaø seemed to have forgotten how close he had lingered upon the edge until Zitao is forcing him over it, still tangled in the time destroyer’s grip. He prepares himself for the free fall, the drop of his stomach, the way time would slow and shatter.

But it never comes, a sharp yank pulling him back as Zitaø falls, hand reaching forward blindly, grasping for a salvation that will never come. Zitao watches him disappear over the edge, the world tilting in a nauseous blur, arms closing around his waist to catch him as he falls.

It’s Jongin, cursing Zitao and his stubbornness as he lowers him to the floor once more, exhaustion evident in the dark of his eyes. And then Sehun’s there, calling out his name softly, trying to drag Zitao’s focus back home.

“Shixun.” His voice is a low sigh, relief flooding his senses. _He’s alive._ Before either can catch him, Zitao is reaching for the knife embedded in his ribs, choking on a sharp scream of pain as he yanks it free. The blood begins to pulse freely now, spilling over Zitao’s hand warm.

“Oh, _oh god._ ” He can hear Sehun’s panic, wants to reach out and soothe the creased skin between his brows, but his body fails to respond. 

“S’okay Sehun, needed to happen.”

His head is cradled in Jongin’s lap, Sehun hovering over him, one hand slipping between the blood soaked gaps of Zitao’s own, the other framing his jaw tenderly. “You should have let us help.”

There’s a slight accusation in the words, anger, but Zitao can do little more than smile.

“Knew you’d come, had to.” His words slur, Sehun’s face falling in and out of focus as his lashes flutter.

He can’t focus on the desperation heavy in Sehun’s gaze, settles back against Jongin as darkness creeps upon the edges of his vision. It had bled in slow but now seeks to consume him, breath catching on the blood filling his throat.

“-get us back Jongin? Yixing can help if we’re quick.”

And Jongin’s expression is crestfallen as he shakes his head, his power barely a spark beneath his skin, stretched too far, too thin. It spurs on the sob that had been sitting heavy in Sehun’s throat, head falling to bury into the gap of Zitao’s throat.

“Love you Shixun, Jongin. World still needs you, please protect them.” It’s one final plea, one last request and Sehun fails to find his voice, the pitch of his sobs growing.

It’s Jongin that nods, caught on the edges of Zitao’s vision. “We promise Taozi.”

It’s a promise unable to be kept, he knows, but it’s enough to settle the responsibility that keeps him clinging to the agony of his waning life. And Zitao gifts one last smile, expressing all he can no longer offer.

The silence that takes him is temporary, but enough to offer an aching soul a moment of peace.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter and tumblr!
> 
> fan acc twitter: @kittentaozi  
> writing twitter: @GlLDEDRAPTURE  
> tumblr: luzulianrisk


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